Three Times Michael Stood Under the Mistletoe
by Clair de Lune - CdL
Summary: Three times Michael stood uder the mistletoe: Michael/Veronica, Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara (Each "time" can be read independently if some of the pairings aren't your cup of tea.)


**Title: Three Times Michael Stood Under the Mistletoe**  
 **Pairings:** Michael/Veronica, Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara (Each "time" can be read independently if some of the pairings aren't your cup of tea.)  
 **Timeline:** Pre-Series, Post-Series, Alternate Canon  
 **Warning:** Incest

* * *

 **I**

"Whatever, go ahead," Lincoln shouts at them from the kitchen. Then, like an afterthought: "But no tongue!"

Veronica rolls her eyes and cups Michael's face between her hands. Michael ignores Lincoln's crude green light. Anything Linc may say is blurred away by the warmth and the quiet happiness of the moment anyway, allowing Michael to focus on Vee palming his jaw, on her fingers grazing his cheek bones and mercifully covering his blushing. She holds him with care, like something precious and dear. He half-closes his eyes in anticipation. His face burns with embarrassment and his heart pounds in his chest, but he's fourteen – fourteen and a quarter, really – and standing under the mistletoe with his brother's girlfriend; girlfriend for whom he has a bad case of puppy love. He's not backing off, no matter how rude Lincoln can get.

Vee has to rise on her toes and lean against him, her hands curling a bit more tightly and her breasts pressing into his chest. Warm and soft and smooth, the pressure of her mouth on his, a bit of moistness, and more than a hint of tongue sweeping across his bottom lip. She winks at him, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. He gasps and kisses her back on pure need and instinct, again and again, keeping it up until more nasty comments gush from Lincoln.

When he takes down the mistletoe two days into the New Year, he doesn't throw it away. He keeps it in his bedroom.

 **II**

He's drunk. It will be his excuse, being drunk. More than he thinks he is, but less than Lincoln imagines, which is convenient: it means Lincoln won't question – much – what Michael's about to do. And the risk that the people around them say or notice anything at all is minimal. They're Lincoln's friends, most of them either drunk or high, the others not giving a fuck.

The mistletoe hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the crappy living room, and when Lincoln steps a bit too close, steps right under it near Michael, Michael draws him into a graceless hug; arms wrapping, hands gripping, lips crushing Linc's. And there's tongue, for the record. It's a full, real kiss, deep and demanding, with tongue and saliva, teeth grazing firm lips and gasps sucked into sharp intakes of air.

The real surprise, though, comes from Lincoln kissing _him_ with so much softness and tenderness that Michael isn't sure he can handle it. In a brush of tongue and a press of lips, Lincoln soothes, comforts, and gives more than Michael could have ever fantasized.

"Never do that again, Michael," his brother tells him later, standing at the door of his room.

Michael is already half asleep in his bed, but he manages to raise his head and smirk. "Why?" he drawls. His lips are still tingling from the kiss, but he can't go there. "You seemed to like it."

Lincoln's face is stern and inexpressive, hard as a rock. Michael wishes he could get up and kiss him again and make him soft and pliant again against him and...

"I did."

Lincoln closes the door and leaves Michael in the dark.

 **III**

He dances Sara under the mistletoe. Sneaky though not very subtle, his hands around her waist and the tip of his fingers brushing the small of her back, right where it curves into her bottom, because there are other people in the room – Linc and Sofia and LJ and Sucre and... – but it's dark enough and it's not like any of them pay attention to them. More importantly, they're _alive_ and he doesn't care about anything else.

Sara grins and kisses him.

Scratch that.

Sara grins and gives him the most indecent kiss he's ever been given under the mistletoe. Tongue licking into his mouth, full body contact and stomach rubbing against his crotch. She's a naughty woman, rubbing like that against him – it can only lead to...

He pins her tighter against him, holding onto her for dear life, everything else disappearing in face of the perfection of the moment. He doesn't feel anything but her warmth, doesn't hear anything but her breath into his ear, doesn't smell anything but the scent of her skin and hair. He's happily drowning into her and he doesn't try to kiss her back. Body, mind and soul aflame, he lets her do whatever she wants with him – and who cares about Lincoln telling them to get a room or Sucre suggesting that, maybe, it's time for the guests to leave.

Eventually, she tilts her head back and looks him in the eye. If he was a little bit less gone, he'd notice that she's as affected as he is, flushed and breathless, ready to melt into his arms.

Her words cut through his haze of lust and love.

"You do know you don't need mistletoe to kiss me, right, Scofield?"

Sucre is right: maybe it _is_ time for the guests to leave.

END


End file.
